These days, Orlando is always in a hurry. He races from school to dance class, or from school to basketball practice, or from dance class to basketball practice, or from basketball practice to drama club, or from drama club to basketball practice on what is an enormous virtual hamster wheel. He is so busy and so tense that if he saw a large, neon sign that said RELAX it would take him several minutes to work out what it means. And even when he’d worked it out, he would be as likely to relate it to himself as he would an ad for horseshoes. Horseshoes? What does that have to do with me? I don’t have a horse.

Besides always being in a hurry, Orlando is, of course, almost always late for one thing or another. Tonight he’s going to be so late getting home that he’ll miss the curfew his father has imposed during basketball season. There’ll be no burning the candle at both ends for Orlando, not after what happened when his brother tried it. And especially not when one of the ends is a career in professional basketball.

Coach Mena held Orlando after practice this afternoon for a little coach-to-player talk. “I know where your body is,” said Coach Mena, “but I’m not so sure about your mind. I thought you’d pulled yourself together. You were playing like you used to for a while. But since Christmas you play like you’re blindfolded and wearing boxing gloves. If you keep on like this…”

Since Christmas Orlando keeps thinking about people living the wrong life. Sorrel should have been able to love whomever she wanted. Her mother should have done what she wanted. His mother should have married a man who wouldn’t treat her like his housekeeper. His father should have followed his dreams himself or found different ones.

Coach Mena shook his head. Less with sadness than disappointment and disgust. “You seem distracted. Not focused. Like you don’t even care. Like tonight? Tonight balls were flying by you like birds.”

Which was a massive exaggeration; it was one ball, one bird. Orlando mumbled something about school pressures. “It’s senior year, you know? There’s a lot going on.”

Sounding disturbingly like Officer Gwinnet, the coach said that basketball is just as important as school, making it clear that he meant more important. Orlando promised to try harder. Again.

“Where have I heard that before?” asked the unsmiling Mena.

“Much, much harder,” said Orlando.

As if that wasn’t enough, Stella Brood held him after the run-through this evening for a little director-to-cast-member talk, too. “I know you can’t give us all the time you’d like,” said Stella Brood, “but I want you to know that you’re doing a fantastic job. We’re all really impressed.” Besides being in the chorus line he’s been given a small speaking part as well. “Now, I don’t want to put you under any extra pressure, but I was hoping you’d agree to be Malik’s understudy.” As a reward for being so fantastic. “I’ve been dithering about it because I don’t think anyone else is really up to it.” Orlando pointed out that Malik, the lead, doesn’t really dance. “That’s why I’m not making him your understudy,” said Stella Brood. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I do hope you’ll take it. This would be good practice for you. Sort of cutting your teeth. It’d be a shame to waste your obvious talent.” Talent. He has obvious talent. When did that happen? Orlando knew he should say no. It was crazy; he was already stretched so far it was a miracle he hadn’t snapped, but, of course, he didn’t want to say no. He doesn’t want to waste his talent either, not now that he knows he has it. And he’s enjoying being in the play; a lot more than he’s ever enjoyed basketball. He said he’d do his best. “That’s all I wanted to hear,” said Stella Brood. Orlando can only hope that Malik doesn’t drop out before opening night.

Of all the things to be late for, home is the least forgiving. If his father could install a time clock, he would. Orlando isn’t that worried tonight because there’s a bug doing the rounds of the station, so his father’s been working overtime this week. Nonetheless, as a precautionary measure, he drives home as fast as he can without risking a ticket. Where his father’s concerned, he can’t be too careful. Unfortunately, it seems that he hasn’t been careful enough. Either that or his father’s colleagues have all had miraculous recoveries and he hasn’t had to take on any extra hours. Officer Gwinnet is at the front door before Orlando gets out of the car.

“You know what time it is, boy?” His father steps off the porch like a policeman who knows you were speeding and isn’t going to take any guff. “Where the hell have you been?”

Orlando freezes, standing on the ground but holding on to the car door. “I had practice.”

“Don’t give me that crap. Practice was over hours ago.”

“I was hanging out with some of the guys.”

“Do I look like a vegetable patch that you think I need manure dumped on me?” bellows his father. His fists are clenched. “I talked to Mena. You didn’t go anywhere with anyone. He kept you after. He kept you after because you’ve been messing up again. Lying to me and messing up! So where the hell have you been?”

Dancing the night away, where else?

This, however, is no time for jokes. With every word out of his mouth, his father takes another step towards him. Thump. Thump. Thump. Orlando can see his mother at the living-room window, curtain twitching, looking worried if not actually terrified.

Which makes two of them. It doesn’t happen often, but his father has been known to throw a punch. Suzanne and Orlando have both walked into more than one wall over the years.

It’s Sorrel who screams, “For Christ’s sake, Orlando, get in the car!”

Officer Gwinnet is so surprised to see his son suddenly jump back into the driver’s seat and slam the door shut that he stops in his tracks. “Where do you think you’re going?” he shouts. “You come back here!”

But Orlando is already almost out of the driveway.

Sorrel, looking out of the rear window, watches Orlando’s father recede and then turns around to face the road. “Phew. That was kind of scary. I really thought he was going to deck you.”

Orlando, catching his breath, just grunts. He thought so, too.

Sorrel stretches out in the passenger seat. “And to think you were having such a good day.”

“Was I?” Orlando’s heart is galloping. It’s amazing how quickly a good day can turn into a bad night. “I don’t remember that right now.”

“Well, you were. Okay, not with Mena. That was pretty bleak. But with Stella it was ace. You can’t’ve forgotten that already. The way she praised you. All that stuff about not wasting your obvious talent. Didn’t I tell you that you’d be good at acting?” Apparently death does nothing to encourage modesty. “I hope you remember who pushed you into this when you’re a famous Broadway star.”

“Like you give me any chance to forget you.” He looks into the rear-view but his father isn’t pursuing, blue light flashing. “And you know what, Sorrel? I’d really like to forget you. I’d like to forget about you the way I’ve forgotten the name of the kid who sat next to me in kindergarten. But instead you keep popping up all the time. Needling and niggling me. And making things worse. Like this. Now I’m really in trouble.”

“In trouble for what? You didn’t do anything, Orlando. So one time you break this bogus curfew. Big mega deal. It’s not like you were out drinking till three in the morning. It’s not even midnight, so you’re hardly late at all. He’s just riled because you didn’t do exactly what he wanted. For God’s sake, you’re eighteen – he can’t keep you on a lead for ever. You have to start acting like an independent person sometime.”

There are few things more guaranteed to cause anger than someone telling you the truth you don’t want to hear.

“Christ. Why don’t you leave me alone?” He slams his hands down on the wheel and hits the horn. “Look at me. You listened to your crazy mother and I listen to you. I’m going to have to go back.” And face the wrath of Gwinnet.

“But not yet,” says Sorrel. “Give him time to calm down.”

“And what should I do instead? Drive around in circles all night? I don’t even know where I’m going.”

“Yes you do.” She points through the windscreen. “You’re going there.”

He comes to a stop in front of Ruben’s. The house is dark.

“He isn’t in.”

“Of course he’s in. Except for school stuff he pretty much goes out less than a cloistered monk.”

“Okay, maybe he’s there. But you know he’s not going to let me in. It’s been like a year since I got through that door.”

She sighs. Apparently he’s being exasperating. “Then why did you come here?”

Because this is where he always came when things were bad.

“And anyway, you don’t have anything to lose. The worst that happens is Ruben won’t let you in and you go home and get a black eye.”

What a choice.

Orlando climbs out of the car and walks up to the front door. He rings the bell. It doesn’t work. He knocks. He knocks again.

“Keep your shirt on!” He hears Ruben coming from the kitchen. Sees him peer through the peephole.

“It’s me. Orlando.”

Ruben opens the door.

From somewhere behind him, Ruben’s mother calls, “Who is it? Is that Orlando?”

“Yeah, it’s Orlando,” Ruben calls back.

“I had no place else to go,” says Orlando.

Ruben steps aside. “Then you’d better come in.”

Orlando glances over his shoulder as he steps into the house. Sorrel is still in the passenger seat, watching him. Making sure he goes inside. Not that she has to worry about that.